Firecracker
by Melanie Geller
Summary: She leads the perfect life...and the perfect lie. A look into Monica's life as a mother, postfinale. Includes all characters. Please read and review!
1. Ignite

_**I know, I know. New fic, not what I need. But I've had this idea in my head for quite awhile...so we'll see. It is post season ten, and revolves around Monica and her life, but it will also include everyone else quite a bit. **_

**_I know I might get reviews saying Monica would never turn into a mother like she is here, but just give it a chance. She could have changed. :) Plus, it's my fic. _**

**_Leave me a review if you'd like me to continue!_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Okay:)_**

**_----_**

_She smiles wide, her smooth velvet lips gliding across two rows of pearly white teeth._

_Outside, she glows like the dawn._

_And inside, she is screaming.  
_----

"Mommy, don't you wish you were a firecracker sometimes?" My five year old daughter, Erica, questions me, her bright blue eyes sparkling ferociously underneath the cheerful lighting of the grocery store.

I load barbeque potato chips and fruit punch in our silver shopping cart. It is Fourth of July weekend, and we are holding our fifth annual barbeque celebration.

And everything has to be perfect.

I mentally tick off grocery items in my head, even though it was Chandler's job to write it. The items just come to me naturally.

-Jell-O  
-Hot dogs  
-Punch  
-Chips and dip  
-Beer  
-Barbeque sauce  
-Water balloons  
-Tampons

Erica continues her rambling, skipping down the tall aisles, her Velcro red sandals flapping largely on her feet. I smile at her and tussle her soft white-blond hair.

Ahead of her, Jack stacks his action figures atop a large display of pre-packaged chocolate chip cookies. I know he's waiting for me so he can beg for the treats. His watery eyes will tempt me, the invading tears heavily tipping down the baby soft slopes of his cheek will almost convince me that it's enough for unhealthy cookies.

But I won't give in; I never do.

"Mommy, don't you?" Erica tugs at the bottom of shirt.

"Don't I what, sweetheart?"

"Wish you were a firecracker?"

This is the first year that the kids are truly excited about the fourth of July. Prior to this, they were always afraid of the loud booming sounds. But this year, for whatever reason, both are ecstatic and want to see the fireworks.

Don't I wish I were a firecracker? What kind of question was that? Erica always surprises me. Jack is fairly straightforward, a bundle of energy and fire. But Erica is quieter and very precocious in a less obvious sort of way.

"Sure, sweetheart. I love fireworks."

"Don't you wish you_were_ one, though?"

I push the cart farther down the aisle, reaching for bottled water. "I don't know, it might be sort of hot."

"But fun," she insists.

"Okay, sweetie. Let's go get Jack."

She follows behind me, discouraged, as we seek out her twin brother. The chocolate chip cookies long abandoned, I now find him scaling the tower of toilet paper, action figures in tow.

"Jack, get down from there!" I yell, my face flushing a brilliant red. "Erica, stay right there."

She crosses her arms and leans against the wall, rolling her eyes at her brother's antics.

"Jack, you are so stupid, why would you climb toilet paper?" Erica screeches up the tower.

With one hand, I grab Jack's left arm as I reprimand Erica for saying 'stupid.'

When we reach the ground, I breathe a sigh of relief. No one is around to see us.

"Jack, what were you thinking?" I yell, and immediately I am sorry.

His blue eyes water with tears. "I wanted to see the top, Mommy."

"Why?" I sigh exasperatedly.

"To see what everything looked like from up there."

"Oh, sweetie," I scoop him into my arms. "I would have lifted you up to see."

"It's not the same."

"All right." I pat his head and set him down...but I know what he means.

With Jack in tow, Erica and I resume pushing the cart. The check-out line is in sight when I hear a scream behind me.

It is Jack.

He throws himself down on the ground, pounding the linoleum with his small fists. "Mamaaaaaaaaa!"

I race over to him. "What, sweetie, what?"

"I lost my toys! My toys, my toys, my toys, my toys!"

"Jack, what, where did you lose them?" I run my fingers through my hair as I feel the eyes from my fellow shoppers and mothers burn through my bright red skin.

He stands up and pushes our cart into the shelves, causing magazines and bubble gum to scatter haphazardly across the floor. "What did you do with my toys, Erica?"

Erica opens her eyes wide, innocent. I mentally plead with her, please don't scream. In a quiet voice, she whispers, "Jacky, I don't have them. They're still by the toilet paper."

A stout woman holding onto her three precious and well-mannered children retrieves Jack's action figures.

"Here you go, sweetie." She hands them to me, not Jack, calling me sweetie, not my child. Her eyes are sympathetic, but not understanding. "Having twins must be hard, huh?"

I lift Jack into the cart and wipe sweat from my brow. "Yeah, just a bit."

"Well, good luck."

"Thanks."

She leaves, and the crowd surrounding us disappears.

"Mommy, did you give Jack his medicine today?" Erica asks me.

A horrible thought crosses my mind. Did I?

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Between grocery shopping, cleaning the house, and an early morning spat with Chandler, Jack's daily Ritalin had been long forgotten.

"Okay, guys, we've got to get home." I urge Erica though the line, tossing our groceries on the conveyer belt.

Jack climbs out of the cart right before I can catch him. "Don't go anywhere!" I yell.

"Ma'am, is that all you would like?" The cashier has finished ringing up our items.

Jell-O, hot dogs, punch, chips and dip, beer, barbeque sauce, water, and balloons roll across the counter. "Yeah, that should be it," I say as I take out my list.

But they're not on there. "Shit."

The cashier's eyes flutter quickly. What, has she never seen a mother cuss before? "Did you forget something?" She speaks carefully, almost as if she is afraid of me.

"Yeah." I glance over at Jack, who is pretending to ride on a mechanical horse, and Erica, who still stands serenely by our cart. "Will you watch them?" I ask the dumbfounded cashier.

"Okay, just for a minute, right?"

I take it she witnessed Jack's outburst.

"I'll be quick."

My worn flip-flops bounce against the ground, and I wonder how I got like this. Only five years ago, I was so well put together, clean and stable. Now, I'm an absolute train-wreck. It sounds so cliche to say that having kids really can undo a woman, but in my case it's true. Between Jack's ADD, Erica being spacey, house mortgage, Chandler's job, and my full time job as a mother, life has been hard.

I scan the brightly colored toiletries for tampons. My mind wanders as I try to find the brand I like. This past year has gone by so fast, life is moving rapidly these days. I used to sit in a coffee house in my spare time. Now, I sleep, in the rare time I get alone.

It seems like yesterday that we were holding our last fourth of July party. I can almost taste the watermelon, see Rachel, Ross, Phoebe and Joey trying to avoid our sprinkler system, hear all of our children splashing in the crystalline water.

I grab a box of Playtex and proceed down the aisle.

And so many children--Wait.

My last period was in May. It is now July.

My heart beats in my ears as I return to the check out counter. Why am I late? I'm _never_ late. Never. Half the time, I'm early. Maybe it's menopause. Yeah, that's it. I'm just old.

Forty, though? Is it really that old these days?

I can't even be pregnant. Not now, not ever. It's physically impossible, we've been analyzed again and again.

"We'll keep trying." Chandler's words boom in my mind.

We've had sex lately, but not for a baby. In fact, the only sex we've had lately has been make-up sex.

And it's not even that good anymore.

So I can't be pregnant. No. There's no way in hell. I'm too freaking old.

"Demi Moore- Baby at 45!" People magazine proudly proclaims.

Yeah, but she's had Botox. That makes a big difference. I have wrinkles now, lots of them. And not even just on my face, that's the scary part.

I consider my thoughts carefully. Why am I upset at this possible child? I love my kids more than life itself, more than cooking, more than _cleaning_.

So why would having another baby mess up my already chaotic life?

A mother juggling four kids teeters past me, nearly knocking me over with her two carts.

Oh. _Right._

I pivot on my heel, making a dark scuff mark with my shoe. How the hell did my flip flop manage that?

The white among the dark drastically stands out. There's nothing like messing with perfection; I should damn well know.

Breathing in deep, I grab a pregnancy test. And then I run, racing back through the maze of aisles, just in time to see Jack once again trying to climb his Everest- the toilet paper tower. I can't forget to give him his medicine again.

"Jack Charles Bing! Get DOWN from there!" He falls before I can catch him, landing on a bed of Charmin. If Chandler were here, he'd make some lame pun. "He's so _charmin'_" I could see him saying.

But I only sigh; for now, at least, I am all out of yells. "Come on, sweetie. Let's go."

Erica stares off into space, not registering in on the situation. "Mommy, when will we see the firecrackers?"

"Tonight, sweetie." I lean heavily against the counter, catching my breath. My world is spinning around me.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

I notice the cashier once again. "Oh, yeah. Thanks for watching them, by the way."

I didn't mean it to be sarcastic, but I guess that's how it sounded. Her face melted a deep red. "I-I'm sorry, ma'am. I had another customer."

"No, don't worry about it," I look at her nametag, "Heather. Just don't go grocery shopping with twins. Or forget to give your son his Ritalin," I add.

"I don't have kids. I'm twenty-two."

Lucky bitch.

I mean, no. That came out wrong. I just mean that she has a lot of life ahead of her before she has to start living through people thirty-five years younger than she.

"Enjoy it while you can," I joke, and begin to walk away without paying or handing her the test.

"Ma'am!" She calls out after me. "You didn't give me your last item. Or pay." She bites her nails; I'll bet it's one of her bad habits. If there's anything I've learned from being a mother, it is that _everyone_ has bad habits.

"Jesus. I'm so sorry." I drag the cart back and pull out my wallet.

"Did you want to buy..." Heather trails off, gesturing towards the item in my hand.

"Oh. Yeah." I place the pregnancy test on the counter and her eyes open wider than saucers.

Heather attempts to smile at me, but it comes out of pity. "Good luck." I don't know if she means with our possible baby, my possible menopause, or the twins.

"Thanks," and I don't know what I'm talking about either. I never do these days.

She throws in a pack of gum from behind her. "Happy Fourth of July. Consider the gum as a gift."

"Thank you." I smile, and for a second I feel like an adult again. I am poised, tall, tanned, and glamorous. I look down at Heather's nails; they are perfect. Go figure.

And then I come crashing down. My shirt has a spaghetti stain running across it, I have the most God-awful farmer's tan, and the only reason I feel tall is because I am standing on the cart's bottom rung, trying to spot my children among the masses.

"Mommy, Mommy!" I can hear Erica's voice ringing through the crowd.

Pushing the cart, I bellow, "Here I come!"

"Mommy, Jack is trying to climb inside the machine that has the claw!"

"The claw?" In my mind, I have a horrible image of a construction site.

"The one with the toys," she rolls her eyes.

"Jack! Don't do that!" I grab him by his shirt and put him in the cart, the only place where he's apparently safe. "Why did you put your head inside the bottom of that, huh?" I smile in spite of myself, but mostly just to show the surrounding mothers that I am not the equivalent of a Mother Stalin.

"You told me you weren't going to buy me anymore toys until Christmas, so I wanted to steal some."

I groan. "Jack, I meant that you and Erica had a lot of toys and got a lot of birthday presents. I was joking. I will buy you more toys, okay? We don't steal."

"Daddy steals third every time we play baseball," Erica chimes in.

"That's...different."

"No it's not, Mommy. You told Daddy that was wrong, too."

What are they, trying to form a regime against me?

"I was joking, sweetie."

"So are you joking now, Mommy?" Jack's hair is falling in his eyes, and I want so badly to push it away. If we have another baby, I think, I will run out of hands. So it's settled; we can't.

But I've wanted to get pregnant for so long. Maybe I'm just having a bad day.

No, I think. Every day for the past two years has been 'just a bad day.'

"No, Jack, I'm very serious now. We don't steal."

We trudge towards the automatic doors, but not before I can hear Heather's voice again.

"Ma'am! You forgot some things!" She runs towards me, pregnancy test and Double Mint gum in hand.

"What's that, Mommy?" Jack asks.

"Yeah, what did you forget?" Erica looks worried. In her mind, I never forget anything.

"Uh...a game." It is thesmartest lie I can come up with.

"A game!" They both squeal.

Okay. _That_ wasn't so smart.

"Have a good night..." Heather searches for my name.

"Monica," I offer. "My name is Monica."

She grins. "Don't forget your gum."

Right. Now that I have gum, my life is complete. I can never decide when that moment will occur, but apparently it is now.

"I won't. Have a good night, Heather."

"You, too, Monica." She walks away, back to her counter. I wish I could hide behind it like she does, but my job is to simply walk by it.

Walking out to the car, Jack asks me such a simple question. "Mommy, can we play the game when we get home?"

I laugh. "Sure, sweetie."

"Mommy, why is that funny?" Erica wonders.

"It just is." Everything becomes funny when you go crazy.

"Okay," she sings in a high voice. "But I don't think it's funny."

I giggle once more. "Now _that's_ funny!" I tap her on the nose.

Why, ten minutes ago, did I think having another child would be so bad? Actually, in fact, it might be kind of great in a way. It is what I've always wanted, just like Jack and Erica.

A woman in her twenties with two kids waltzes by us on her four inch high heels. I'll bet she never wears flip-flops. Come to think of it, I never used to either.

I am so busy watching her and her perfect children breeze by us, I don't realize the lack of distance between the cart and my car. We crash into it, creating a large scratch against its shiny black skin.

_"Shit!"_

Erica's jaw drops. "Mommy, that's one of the _bad _words!"

"I know, Erica, but sometimes we have to say them."

"Shit!" Jack screams. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

I've scarred my car, corrupted my children, and realized how disgruntled I've become.

From the opened doors of my Volvo, I can hear the twins singing praises to the word 'shit' to the tune of "Roll, roll, roll your boat."

Well, like I said before, there is nothing like messing up perfection.

And I do know.

Pushing my cart dangerously close to the aisles of cars, I slide down the side of my car, adding another stain to my already tainted shirt.

I have to be ready for ten guests coming over in three hours. Jack needs his medicine, Erica keeps asking about fireworks, Chandler and I are fighting, and I need a shower badly.

Oh, and my infertile wasteland could quite possibly be newly inhabited. I know I should be happy, but...

_Oh, shit._  
----

_**Thank you for reading! I hope everyone has a safe and happy Fourth of July weekend...if you are American. :) And even if not, have a great weekend! **_

_**Leave me a review if you like it and think I should continue. I know it's different, but...we'll see. :) lol. **_

_**Thanks!**_

_**Mel**_


	2. Burn

_**Thank you guys for such positive responses! Sorry this took awhile to get out. But on the bright side, I know exactly where this one is going. My mind wanders at work. ;) **_

_**I don't know if the first thing is a quote or whatever. It sounds vaguely familiar, but I don't know for sure if I made it up. lol. If anyone knows whether the quote was a creation of my imagination or an actual quote...I'd appreciate it. I searched, but you never know. **_

_**Please leave me a review! Thank you to the eighteen that DID review...and to the 233 others that hit it and quit it (I'd rather stay and play...) lol. Sir Mixalot, anyone? Kudos to anyone that got that lame joke. ;) **_

_**Enjoy:)**_

_

* * *

_

_Sometimes, life throws you a curveball._

_And other times, that damn ball just hits you in the face._  
----

"Did you get all of the things on the grocery list?" The words come tumbling out of Chandler's mouth before I can even plant my feet atop our freshly cleaned hardwood floor.

"Yes," I sigh, but not loudly. I don't know what he'd do if he heard me.

"Do you want me to put the groceries away?" He shouts over Jack, who comes barreling through the door.

As long as you don't see the pregnancy test. "Uh, sure. Hang on a second." Geez, how am I going to get the test out of the bag? Images of me bomb-diving across the room flood my mind, but I know it won't work out well. I have a sort of idea...but who knows if it will work. I'm not really that sure about anything anymore.

"Erica, sweetie, why don't you and Jack sing that new song for Daddy?" I know it's bad, and yes, exploiting my children for my own sneaky vices. But I have to. If he sees this, I know his reaction will be even more catastrophic than my own.

"Mommy, I thought it was a bad song," she whispers. Apparently, she has not forgotten our lengthy talk in the car.

"Um...but I know Daddy will like it," I insist.

Jack turns my way as Chandler starts opening the bags. Oh, shit. "Jacky, do you remember our talk in the car about bad words?"

He nods, fidgeting with his toys, not wanting to stay in my arms. "Yeah, Mommy. Sorry. I need to...need to go play." He grins, almost too devilishly for my liking.

"Well, for today, and today only, you can say the bad words. Say them to Daddy, okay?" This is not going to be pretty, I can tell. But Chandler only has two more bags to go until he reaches the one with the toiletries. I have to.

"Shit!" Jack runs into the living room, tossing his toys ahead of him. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

Slowly, Chandler pivots on his heel. "Did he say what I think he said?"

"You know what, I think he did." I nod almost too eagerly. "Why don't you go check it out and I'll put away the groceries."

But Chandler is almost in the other room, already on Jack's heels.

"Don't forget to give Jack his medicine!" Erica cries out from her perch on the stairs.

I nod to her and race past, carrying the pregnancy test up to the guest bathroom. "Okay, sweetie. Go play or something."

"I don't want to," she sighs, and watches her twin get in trouble.

From the balcony, I see her pull a chair from the table and climb on the counter-top to reach the medicine cabinet. I start to yell at her, but close my mouth. She is merely doing what I should have done this morning without thought.

Her small hands work diligently to unscrew the child-proof lid. Somehow, she achieves this, and smiles at her small feat. Placing his pills on the counter, she moves the chair back like a pro.

Once she is safely out of my sight, I wonder to myself:

How many times will my poor little girl have to play mother before her real one gets the hang of it?

I glance down at my shaking hand, pregnancy test shaking inside.

Huh. Maybe it'll be awhile longer.  
----

"Oh my God!" Screams Rachel five hours later as I greet her at the door. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

Technically, I saw her two weeks ago, and we talk nearly every day. But compared back when we used to see each other every day, two weeks is a lifetime. And God knows, two weeks in my life is a lifetime.

"I know!" I cry back. "I missed you so much!"

Ross rolls his eyes. "Gimme a break. You guys act like it has been a million years."

"Aunt Monica, where are Jack and Erica?" Eight year old Emma trails behind Ross and Rachel, holding two year old Madison's hand.

"Mon-ca," Madison squeals and holds up her arms. I bend over and take the small brown haired girl in my arms. She looks more like Ross, whereas Emma is Rachel's near carbon copy. Erica and Jack's two blond heads zoom past my left elbow.

And my children look nothing like me.

"Hey, Maddie. Whatcha doing?" I miss the days when Jack and Erica were this age.

"Mon-ca!" She repeats, this time squirming to get down. Well, I never said it was easy.

"Geez, she grew so much in these couple of weeks!" I exclaim.

"Really? I guess we don't notice it because we see her every day," Rachel replies.

Yeah. That could be it. Your kids grow like puppy dogs to me because I never see them. And you...you just get older. Like me. Your wrinkles start to sink a little deeper, your tan melts into an old orange hue. For once, when I say that I feel old, I really am old. But I can't say that, for everyone's sake.

"So, when is everyone else getting here?" Rachel tosses Maddie's diaper bag in the corner, scattering small orange toys across our polished floor. I suck in a breath of air and exhale deeply. The disorder still bothers me, but I've learned to deal better.

At this moment, Maddie spills her milk from her supposedly spill-proof sippy cup. We paid over 500 dollars to get our floors waxed! I want to scream, but I know they will think I am crazy.

"Shoot!" Rachel screams. Am I really the only one that cusses anymore?

But thank God. Maybe I'm not the only one that gets upset over spilled milk.

She scoops up her crying toddler, stroking her soft brown hair in an effort to consol her. Sometimes, I wish I was that small.

And other times, I feel like I actually am.

"We didn't bring anymore milk," explains Rachel.

Well, would you look at that. Here I am, almost hyperventilating because a little bit of milk dripped on my floor. Rachel was actually caring about her daughter.

"I'll go get a towel." As I walk away, I leave the now content Geller family. "And Maddie can have some milk. We have plenty."

I feel like screaming as I skid away, almost falling into a spiral dive across our obscenely perfect floor.

"Chandler, Ross and Rachel are here!" I call out to him as I fly into my kitchen.

"I know," he peers out from underneath our sink. "Do you know where the huge fruit salad bowl is?"

Looking around, my jaw drops in horror. I made my best effort to conceal the mess we live in these days. It took me five freaking hours, but I did it. And now Chandler has destroyed it, torn apart our kitchen from its very core. And for a fruit salad bowl?

"Jesus, Chandler! What the hell have you done?" I hiss at him, soft enough so Ross and Rachel can't hear, and yet loud enough to let him know that I'm ready to tear his head off.

"I was looking for the fruit salad bowl," he shrugs.

"For what?" My voice raises an octave. I feel a storm of words coming on, and this won't be pretty.

"Uh...fruit salad?"

"Why? I spend five hours cleaning our home so no one can see how disgusting we truly are, and you tear it apart so you can find a bowl? Where the hell did you get that idea?"

He glares at me, trying to see beyond my now acceptably made-up face. I can tell he's searching, but he draws a blank. "You."

"What?" Seriously. Talk about problems...

"You asked me where I got the idea. And I told you." He reiterates. "You."

"Why would I tell you to rip our kitchen to shreds?"

"You told me to find the fruit bowl!" If we were in some old Looney Toons cartoon, steam would pour from his ears. Hell, it practically does right now.

"Why?" When did I ever tell him that?

"For the FRUIT!" He screams, and the house becomes silent.

"Okay," I raise my hands in the air and kneel on the ground beside him. "Okay. Let's talk about this rationally. I spent the majority of the day cleaning, and you proceeded to undo my work. We've embarrassed ourselves in front of our guests, and you've accused me of asking you to destroy my kitchen. Do you see something wrong with this?"

Chandler sinks down against the kitchen cabinets, the cold wood tattooing his back. "Monica." He shakes his head in dismay. "Monica."

Can he not say anything besides my name? "What?"

"Why does everything we fight about sound like we're arguing in front of a jury? Ross and Rachel are our family, they've seen us fight. And so what if our kitchen isn't perfect? It's not the end of the world, you know!"

I get up to walk away, gritting my teeth. I clean so they won't see beyond our thin layer of happiness, so I, too, can be blinded by the gleaming surfaces.

He grabs me from behind, softly. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. Just calm down, okay?" Chandler begins to stroke the back of my hair. I want to fall into him, to sink through his many creases and never let go. I want to cry and scream and laugh like I used to be able to. But I remain stiff as a board.

"You know, normal people have dirt on their floors. Normal people fight and don't worry so much about what other people think, but they worry about the person they do the fighting with. Our life doesn't have to be something out of a magazine, Mon. Sometimes, I think you try too hard, and there's just this point beyond trying where it all becomes useless. That's when you just need to...accept the way things are turning out." He pushes me away. "I'm going to go find the fruit bowl and clean up the mess I made."

Slowly, I walk towards the upstairs to compose myself. I know Ross and Rachel are in the other room playing with the kids, pretending they didn't hear our quarrel. I will head upstairs, change my outfit, and wait for everyone else to get here.

We will watch the firecrackers and eat nearly perfect and grilled various meats. We will laugh and smile, but deep down no one will register in on the situation.

We will all be pretending.  
----

"And then last week on the set, Christina did the funniest thing-"

I drift in and out of each conversation, smiling and nodding appropriately.

Joey talks animatedly with his hands. I had forgotten this quality he had; it's amazing how much you can forget about the things you always thought you'd remember.

His career is steadily climbing the charts; we got lucky this weekend that he was in town. Sometimes, I buy a tabloid just to see what he's up to. I'd never tell anyone this, but I get some secret pleasure in buying that magazine and knowing that we were friends. Are friends, I mean. But no one in the grocery store knows this when I purchase my normal list of groceries. They think I'm normal, with normal friends. I am, for the most part. Or I'd like to think that.

"Then the other day, Sophie punched Mike in the eye and gave him the grossest black eye!" Phoebe exclaims as she laughs in between her gasps of air. "It was the funniest thing I've ever seen in my entire life!"

"Wait, Pheebs. Sophie isn't even four yet," remarks Rachel.

"Yeah, but she's got one heck of a left hook!" Phoebe laughs as she rocks the car seat beside her. Inside, four month old Mike Jr. sleeps soundly to the sound of his extended family screeching around him.

"So where is Mike today?" Ross asks.

"He had to work."

"Really?" I ask. I'm surprised that the voice jumps out of my mouth, but then again I will say anything to feel normal and a part of things again.

"No," she giggles. "His eye is still swollen. He can hardly see!"

"So you think it's hysterical that your husband is getting beaten up by your three year old?" Chandler lights the mosquito repellent candle sitting on the table in the middle of us. As he glances over at all of the children and watches them entrap the fireflies, I can tell that he is worried Jack will give him a black eye one day.

"Hysterical? Pretty much, yeah."

Laughter rings in the air, melting softly with honeysuckle and Maplewood barbeque sauce. A pearly dew has formed, tipping each grass blade with a hint of a reflection. Dusk has fallen, and I know the fireworks will start soon.

"Mommy, will you watch the fireworks with me now?" Erica pops out from underneath my seat, making my heart jump through my throat, down my stomach, and back up in my mouth again.

"Shoot, sweetie, you scared me!"

Her blue eyes cloud with confusion as I brush a firefly from her blond head. "Mommy, don't you mean, 'Shit, sweetie, you scared me?'"

Her voice sounds so innocent, so pure. For a moment, the night falls silent and I know I'm going to be yelled at in a moment for not restraining my sailor-esque vocabulary.

Then Joey breaks down, erupting into a loud and hysteric fit of laughter.

"God, Mon, what do you teach your children?"

The others follow shortly, even Chandler.

"What?" Erica shrugs. "Mommy said that today it was okay to say the bad words."

On the other side of the lawn, I can faintly make out Jack's silhouette and hear his small yet shrill voice. "Just say it, Emma! It's not a bad word today! Mommy said!"

Shit. "Um, I'll be right back. I'm going to go to the bathroom."

I smile in spite of the situation, and then try to float along the dewy grass until I reach my house.

As I run up the stairs and check out the bay window, I can see Erica looking around for me. Crap. I did promise her I'd watch with her, but this will only take a second. I have to rest here for a moment while Rachel reels in the agony of Emma's first swear word. I can almost hear her innocence shattering from here.

Locking myself in the guest bathroom, I prop my elbows up on the small window overlooking the secluded part of our backyard. From the sink, I can see the bag with the pregnancy test waiting for me.

I calculate that it will be at least another fifteen minutes before the fireworks begin, and I've never been very patient. So I decide I'm going to do it. I'm going to take this test.

It takes a minute, but when I'm done I sit steadily atop the fluffy blue toilet cover.

I'm anxious to see the results, anxious and frightened.

I don't know how Chandler will react, I don't know how the twins will react.

Hell, I don't know how I'm going to react.

As I breathe in the suddenly sticky air, the bathroom seems to close in around me. This bathroom is so small, I think. When did this happen? When did the walls become two feet thick? Since when did floral patterns begin to look like flames?

I don't work. I haven't worked in a couple of years, either. Chandler works every day nearly, and it's enough to make ends meet with a little left over. We can't afford another child; I will have to go back to work. We will have to move.

I will have to grow another arm.

Shit. This really can't happen. It's not allowed. I don't even know if I want it to be allowed.

But...

Sometimes, it hurts when I'm out with the twins and I can tell people are wondering why I am so dark and they are so drastically blond. Truly, they look nothing like me, but are so very like me at the same time. I'm sure if I carried a dark haired child in my arms, no one would question the relation.

But I feel terrible saying this; Jack and Erica are as much my children as any child could ever be. The fact that they are light-haired remains the very least of my problems.

We still have to tell the twins that they were adopted; Chandler and I made the decision a long time ago to wait until they were old enough.

I'm wondering now when that time will come. In my eyes, they will always be babies.

A loud clap rings through the air, melting in time with the timer on my cell phone. Crap. I'm missing the fireworks. And the test is ready.

Shaking, I pick up the disgusting and oh-so-unsanitary little stick.

I look at the result.

Well, then. Okay.

I stand up slowly and watch the limes, oranges, and incandescent golds coat the sky in a thin and unlacing coat of paint. A million thoughts are running through my mind right now. I don't know whether to be happy, and I don't know if I should be disappointed.

I wish there was someone to tell me how I should feel.

It would make times like these a hell of a lot easier.

As the fireworks finale booms within the air, I begin shivering. I'm not cold, and yet I'm freezing.

The last display booms in the sky, and I suck in a deep breath of charcoaled air.

I look again at the test in my hand and then down at the people in my world that mean the world to me.

A fiery red firecracker ends the display.

And that's when I throw away the test results, wash my hands, and turn off the flickering bathroom light.

I look in the mirror and open my mouth to force a smile.

All that comes out is an ear-splitting scream.  
----

**_Thanks for reading this. The next chapter will be up ASAP. I will try to work on other updates, too. :) _**

**_Oh, and in response to one of the reviews: Kristy, my best friend's little brother has ADHD (which I guess I should have specified that Jack has, instead of just ADD) so I basically based his behavior off of her brother. Glad you think I'm doing a decent job portraying it. :)_**

**_People, leave me a review if you want to...I can see you reading it! _**

**_Okay, not really. But still. :)_**

**_Mel_**


	3. Fly

_**Hi, wow, guys! This has gotten way too many reviews (but I like it so don't stop). lol. **_

_**Sorry this has taken sooolong to get up. I will be starting school Wednesday (yuck) so updates will actually be more frequent as I am forced in front of my computer and my mind wanders eight hours a day. ;) **_

_**Leave me a review if you like it, okay? And if you just feel like being a nice, kind, goodhearted person. And thank you each and every one of you that reviews; you rock:)**_

_**----  
**__And isn't it ironic, don't you think?_

_- Alanis Morissette, Ironic, Jagged Little Pill  
----_

Holy shit. My mouth is agape, searching for something, words, more screams, anything. I can't breathe anymore, my lungs feel like they are being weighed down; maybe they are. Everything is spinning and all I can think of is that scene from Father of the Bride II when that curly haired actress tells Steve Martin she is pregnant.

Okay, yes, he did play her father in the movie, and Chandler does happen to be my husband, but it's the same concept. Just when we thought everything was going okay in some sort of steady pattern-

BAM.

Jesus God, I am freaking pregnant.

That's right. I grab around for the Kleenex so I can wipe my eyes free of the tears I know are falling.

This is ridiculous, absurd. I'm old, so old. Women my age shop in the senior citizen sections of Sears. I've never even been in Sears. Maybe I'll have to start shopping there.

Oh, and women my age also have to prepare their wills around this time. I have a will, but now I have to change everything to update it. I'm going to have to transform the guest bedroom into a baby bedroom now. Shit, and I just bought the new sheets.

I feel like slapping myself. Amid all of this chaos, I am wondering if Chandler will mind sleeping on floral pattern sheets that just scream "I am the reject from the guest bedroom!"

And I have guests downstairs. Great.

I open the door and find Phoebe changing Mike Junior on my new guest bedroom sheets. Okay, I guess we won't sleep on them anymore.

"Mon?" She glances up from her happy baby. "Were you in there?"

I guess she expected me to turn the lights on. Well, Pheebs, we don't always get what we were expecting. (Which reminds me, I need to go get that What to Expect when You're Expecting book. That's what it's called, right?)

"Yeah. I was just...going to the bathroom."

She frowns. "In the dark?"

I fidget with my chipped fingernails. "Well, I'm getting really old, Pheebs. I don't like to see the wrinkles."

Phoebe's eyes fly open. "You're wrinkly...down there?"

"Like a sad puppy dog." I bury my head in my hands in shame, but mostly to hold in the laughter bubbling from my blatant lie.

"Poor Chandler, eh?"

I grin. "He has no room to talk, believe me, Pheebs." If I have to lie to cover up my crying in the dark, I am taking Chandler down with me.

She mock-vomits. "Gross! Too much information, Mon."

"Sorry," I raise my eyebrows. "So how were the fireworks?"

"Great," she slowly nods. "Were you up here the whole time?"

"Yeah, I guess the chicken or something didn't agree with me."

"And that's why I am a vegetarian." Scooping up baby Mike like a pro, she offers him to me. "Hold him while I go to the bathroom?"

"Sure." I awkwardly reach out to him. For some reason, I find myself very uncomfortable holding a baby right now.

"Come on, Mon. You raised twins! Hold him like normal."

"Okay," I blush, and cradle Mike's face to mine. "See? Normal."

Phoebe shakes her head in confusion as she shuts the bathroom door.

Well, that was weird. I've been holding babies since I was six, and they always fall naturally into my arms. Holding little Mike Junior here feels like I'm trying to nurture a venomous snake.

The baby's large green eyes blink at me as his face scrunches into an impending whimper.

"Shhh," I coo. "Don't cry, baby."

He eases into my body as I glance at my reflection in the full-length mirror. My hair falls limp around my face; I look sad and distraught. This baby looks unnatural in my arms, and I am pressed with a disturbing question: Did I look so strange holding Jack and Erica? Why didn't anyone tell me?

"Monica, you are not fit for children. Some things are just not meant to be, no matter how hard you try to make them work."

Yeah, that would have been a bit harsh.

But as I cradle Phoebe's son close to my body, I realize that in less than a year I will have to hold a baby that is 100 percent my own, my flesh and blood.

A tear shatters upon Mike's head as he looks up at me in confusion. He knows I am not his mother.

I have seen this look on Jack and Erica's faces, and this startles me. Do they know I am not their true mother? Do they suspect that this whole situation is unnatural?

Phoebe exits the bathroom. "Wrinkle free," she announces.

"Good to know," I laugh, and push her child back into her arms, wanting the surreal moment to cease. "He's getting big," I tell Phoebe as I watch her kiss the baby on the head.

"Kind of makes you want to have another one, huh?" She stares off into the corner, misty eyed, until I clear my throat and she registers her comment. "Jesus, Mon, I didn't mean it like that-"

I raise my hand to stop her. "No, Pheebs, I'm fine, really. It's not a big deal at all." But my eyes begin to seep tears, and I don't even know why.

"No, Monica, it is a big deal and I didn't mean it the way it came out. Of course you and Chandler can have more children. You guys have the perfect life."

I smile sadly. "Thanks. Don't worry about it, I'm just PMS-ing." And that was a lie.

"All right, all right." She puts her arm around me and we walk down the stairs.

I notice a significant difference between the ways Phoebe and I walk. Phoebe, once unstable and whimsical, glides down pathways steady as a calmed sea.

I can barely put one foot in front of the other.  
----

The next two weeks pass without much occurring. Chandler wakes up, leaves, and comes home.

Startlingly enough, so do I.

I don't physically leave, but mentally I haven't been in the same state of mind. Erica constantly wonders what is wrong with me, and Jack notices how I never want to play anymore.

I have yet to start getting horrifically fat, though I know it will come. My first doctor's appointment is three days from now; Chandler will be out of town, thank God.

I sit at the table, head in my hands, watching the twins race around the house like speeding bullets.

"Jack, come here, I need to give you your medicine!"

"Why?" He breezes past me.

"Because you haven't taken it and it's almost ten. Please come here and then you can continue playing."

His blue eyes sparkle at me as he dashes in the other direction, scaling the leather couches in our family room. "You have to catch me!"

I get up to follow him (God knows I will do anything just to calm him down) but not before Erica reaches me.

"Mommy," she tugs on the hem of my worn tee shirt. "Fix my hair like a princess?"

I smile; she is wearing her best ballet leotard over a pair of blue jean shorts. "Okay, hold on a minute, sweetie."

"But we have to be at my dance practice in ten minutes!" Her eyes are filled with innocence and worry, a strange and yet fitting mix.

Shit. How the hell could I have forgotten?

"Jack, come here right now!" I yell without meaning to and his face crumples into tears. "No, sweetie, I didn't mean to yell. Come here-"

"Shut up! Don't talk to me ever, never, ever again! I hate you, you're not my mommy!" He races off into the dining room and I hear a piece of china shatter.

Sighing, I look over at Erica, who is now struggling to put on her ballet slippers. "Sweetie, go sit in the car and we will be out in just a minute, okay?"

"Okay, Mommy." She shuffles off, shoes in hand.

I fall onto the staircase, reveling in the hurt of my son's words. They sting me, bite me, rip just a little more at my heart and he has no idea what he has done; he is five. "You are not my mommy!" They echo in my ears as my tears wash away some stale mascara.

The phone rings, deafening the silence.

"Hello?" My voice chokes in my throat.

"Mon, is that you?"

"Hey, Rach. What's up?" I don't even try to sound happy. I'm done with this charade.

"Nothing really. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Phoebe said you seemed unlike yourself a couple of weeks ago. And I haven't seen you since then, so I figured I would call. Are you okay?"

If she only knew. "Um...yeah," I sniffle. "I'm great. Just trying to get Erica off to dance on time."

"Oh. Okay. Well, do you want to talk later?"

Jack's screams roar from the other room. "I hate you!"

And that's all it takes; I break down. "Actually...um, yeah. Something is up."

The panic in her voice raises instantly. "Is it Chandler? The kids?"

Nope. It's me.

"Um...can we meet somewhere later?"

"Sure, what time is her dance over?"

"Eleven forty five," I hiccup.

"Okay, well, I will meet you at noon with the kids."

"At the regular place?"

She laughs slightly. "We couldn't have it any other way."

"All right. I will see you in awhile at Chuck E. Cheese"  
----

That damn mascot of a mouse greets us at the door, and the twins are just delighted. They go to hug him, that freaking pervert in the nasty gray rug suit. I hate this place, but only here can Rachel and I truly talk when needed.

I spot Rachel at our usual table in the corner, farthest away from everything and anything the children will go near. She looks perfect from here, her long hair shining in the distance. I am suddenly very aware that my hair hasn't been washed in three days.

"Go play, kids. No tokens yet, come back for pizza at your table if you want it. Go find Emma and Maddie." I almost sound harsh for a moment until I tussle each blond head. "I love you both. Have fun."

And I practically sprint over to Rachel's table; she sees me and rises, shaking her head. "Jesus, Mon, what is wrong?"

"Do I look that bad?"

"No, well, yes."

Leave it to Rachel to tell you bluntly.

"Thanks, Rach."

"No, I didn't mean it like that. You just look...tired."

We sit down and wait for our billion calorie slices of pizza.

"I am. Very."

"You mean Jack and Erica don't give you your beauty rest?" She grins.

"How about no rest?"

We exchange small talk for awhile, gossiping about various and unimportant subjects. Finally, she brings it up.

"So what did you want to talk about, Mon? I know that something's up. You can tell me; I am your best friend."

I pause and glance around at the kiddy size strobe lights flashing around us. Chuck E. Cheese's is really just the training area for gamblers, the preparation for Vegas and slot machines. All of these games beg for your money, and they are such a waste. I never should have brought them here, but lately I find myself giving in to anything.

Rachel stares at me from across our booth. "So?"

"It's nothing."

Her blue eyes pierce mine. "No. It's not, and we're not going to leave here unless we work it out."

In a startling moment, she reminds me of someone else I used to think I knew so well: myself.

"Is it you and Chandler? Jack and Erica? Your parents?" She pauses. "Me?"

I roll my eyes. "It's not you, my parents, the twins, or Chandler."

"So then what is it?"

"It's sort of...me."

"You? Well, what about you?"

"I'm...changing."

Rachel grimaces. "Phoebe told me about, well, you know, what's going on down there for you. I gotta tell you, I've been lucky lately, but you're really making me nervous about what's coming, wrinkle-wise, and-"

"I do not have a wrinkly...woo hoo."

"So you say 'shit' around your children, but when you and I talk we use 'woo hoo'?"

I blush. "Sorry, but that whole story was something I made up so Phoebe wouldn't think there was anything wrong with me."

"Is there?"

"Sort of."

She throws her hand down on the table. "Monica, I don't feel like playing guessing games. Please tell me what the problem is so I can try to help you fix it!"

"It's not something you can fix!" I yell. "It's not something anyone can fix."

She reaches into Madison's diaper bag. "Well, then it's time to bring out the alcohol."

Rachel pours cheap white zinfandel into the Styrofoam cups. "Maybe you'll loosen up a bit after you drink some."

"I can't drink any of that here, Rach," I whisper quietly.

"Mon, they won't catch us this time. They never do, just don't flirt with the pizza guy like last time and-"

"Maybe I should have clarified. I can't drink that anywhere."

"Oh, come on, I know it's cheap and all, but Ross would notice if I started taking the good stuff with me-"

"Rachel! I am not allowed to drink wine anymore."

"Oh my God," her blue eyes widen to the size of saucers. Finally, she's caught on. "Are you dying?"

Am I DYING?

"Because I saw this thing on the Discovery channel about this dying woman and she couldn't drink, so-"

"Rach!" I cut her off. "I'm pregnant."

Shaking her head in confusion, she sips her wine from the plastic straw. "You are what?"

"Pregnant, with child, expecting. You know, doomed."

"Are you serious? That's great news!" Leaving her spot, she gets up and hugs me. "I'm going to be an aunt again!"

"Yeah, but..."

Her nose twitches in confusion. "Wait a minute. Why aren't you thrilled to be telling me this? Is this what you are upset about?"

"Well...yes."

"Monica! Why? It's what you have always wanted!"

I know, I know. But she doesn't know. At all.

It's in this moment that I want to tell her everything, all of the secrets that I have withheld from everyone, even Chandler. These past two years have been a nightmare, and no one knows. No one ever will.

I want her to listen to me objectively, and not as my best friend. I want advice, and not what I am expecting. I want her to know, as badly as I want Chandler to know the pain I have carried with me from before.

She continues to persuade me to cheer up. Needless to say, I fake it and convince her I feel lighter than air.

As we exit my own personal hell, she hugs me goodbye, patting my stomach for extra measure. "Call me later okay?"

"Don't you dare tell anyone yet," I whisper between gritted teeth.

She laughs, a tinkling chatter. "I won't. Just think of it as a good thing."

We walk our separate ways to the car, each of us rubbing shoulders with perfect strangers. I hold Erica's hand in my left, Jack's in my right. We push our way through the afternoon storm of playtime seekers, parents with missions other than their children.

A man bumps my side haphazardly, rushing towards the adult book store located next door to Chuck E. Cheese. Convenient, eh?

I want to tell him to slow down, that there are children here, and that I happen to be pregnant and extremely vulnerable, like always.

But he doesn't know. None of them know what I carry within me.

And no one has any idea what I have lost. ----

That night, long after Jack and Erica have been tucked in, Chandler and I lay in silence, reveling. I feel as if I should start some conversation, but ultimately decide against it.

All of our nights go on like this.

I want to lean in closer to Chandler, fold into myself and him, breathe in his soft smell, and cry without shedding a tear.

I wish I could tell him that I am pregnant, that I miss the way we used to be so in love, that I think back upon our days living in the city often, and I travel back within the depths of my mind and time.

A soft and gentle rain skims the slope of our rooftop and slowly runs down the window pane. Blurry tears cloud my vision, but I choke them down before Chandler turns over.

I let my fingers crawl up and down his back, tracing words across his faded blue T-shirt.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

He rolls over on his side, propping his body weight up on his right shoulder. He looks into my eyes, but my tears are long dried.

As I shut my eyes, he presses his thumb into my palm, skimming my lifelines with his nails.

I want to talk to him, but I can't. Even with my eyes shut, I can feel him searching my skin for some sort of answer.

Before he can ask what is wrong, I lay on my back and look at the imperfections of our ceiling; all I really want to do is see the sky.

When I roll over, I feel his lips against the back of my neck like butterfly wings to a burning flame.

"Monica," he whispers. "I..." And he can't think of the words. They exist, somewhere between space and time. Maybe somewhere, in a tropical paradise worlds away, his words lay. Buried underneath a pile of moist mud-stained tears, the words are flailing, wanting to escape.

But they don't come, so I say them for him, the only thing that makes sense. A tear finally squeezes out as the rain stops its dance.

I shut my eyes as his eyelashes lap up against the nape of my neck. "I love you."

It is almost too painful to say.  
----

**_I hope you guys liked it! _**

**_Happy going back to school, work, college, etc. lol. :)_**

**_Thank you for reading! _**

**_Mel_**


	4. Fall

_**Wow, so I'm pretty sure the only thing I can say is sorry for not updating this sooner. So I'm sorry. Genuinely sorry. :( I've been busier than I thought was possible, but I'm trying to get back on track...at least with this fic. **_

**_Here's chapter four, and I don't know how many are left. Most likely not a lot. _**

**_Thank you SO much for the kind reviews. I don't know what to do with myself. lol. _**

**_----_**

_"Oh baby- can't do this to me baby Just gotta get out- just gotta get right outta here"  
-Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody_

----

Erica comes home today from preschool with a project, her first real piece of art.

The twins started preschool about a week ago. Surprisingly enough, I found it easy to let them go. The extra rest has done me a bit of good, and I'm nearly back to normal. Nearly.

Her blue eyes sparkle as I pick her and Jack up from their preschool. She skips over to me, arms outstretched, a crinkled piece of blank yellow construction paper in her hand. I read the teacher's carefully printed handwriting across the paper's top: I wish...

And there is nothing on it except for an attached teacher's note.

Dear Mrs. Bing, it reads.

_"Today in class we had the children draw a picture of something they wished for. Jack drew a very nice picture of this game of some sort, but there were some problems with Erica. When asked what she wished for, she remained quiet and stared straight ahead. I asked her again and she told me that she didn't want anything. Seeing as it was the assignment to take home the project and explain the picture to the parents, Erica didn't complete it. We would all appreciate it if you would talk to her about following directions, and observe her behavior. She has been rather quiet lately, and only speaks to Jack. If you would like to schedule a conference with me to talk about these issues we've been having with her, please let me know. Take care."_

_-Mrs. Werth_

"Mommy, what's wrong?" Erica looks so scared, handing me that note from her teacher.

"Nothing, sweetie." We walk out to the playground, Jack dashing ahead of us to get in one last quick swing.

It seems like an ideal place and time to talk to my daughter, so I motion for her to sit by me on the bench.

"Mrs. Werth yelled at me today," she utters, with her blond hair shading her eyes.

"Why did she do that?"

"She said I didn't to the 'signment right. But I didn't want to do it like she said."

I take a deep breath as I ask her, "What did she tell you to do?"

"Well, she told us to draw on the paper what we wanted and to tell her why we wanted it and I was gonna show it to you and Daddy but what I wanted was something I couldn't draw on the paper."

"What do you want, Erica?" For some reason, I'm strangely afraid.

She stares above the swing set, into the distance and the sky. "I wished for the sky, Mommy. I wanted to scoop up the moon craters and hold them in my pocket, my moon bits. I wanted to sit far away and hold the moon and watch the stars. I want to ride on the firecrackers and burn like those candles you yell at Jacky not to touch. But I didn't know how to draw it so Mrs. Werth yelled at me."

God help me. That fucking teacher, who the _hell_ does that bitch think she is? She can't tell my daughter how to think and what to wish for, no one can. Is she so dense that she can't see how brilliant Erica is?

"I don't want to go back to school tomorrow, Mommy." Erica pleads with me, sincerity dripping from her innocent voice.

I ponder her words for a minute. "You know what? You don't have to. You or Jack. We can all stay at home all day together and we'll draw pictures of moonbeams, I promise."

Her eyes widen. "Mommy, you know how?"

I laugh and wish I was that small. I can't even remember back to that era of innocence.

"Really?"

I pull her on my lap as we watch Jack enjoy his last post-preschool playtime. We're never coming back, any of us.

"Really."

The clouds cover the sun, darkening the horizon. She snuggles as close as she can to me and I wish once I could have held her inside myself, like every mother does. But I missed out on that chance.

Erica watches in a daze as the clouds drift overhead.

I squint, closing my eyes and delving into a world of peace and silence. Craters and black holes skim across my skin, and I bounce across the Milky Way like I'm on a trampoline. Together, we can blend into the distance, that place in the galaxy where stars wander through space.

When I open my eyes again, I see that Erica's are shut.

I let mine flutter into the beyond again, and for a moment, we are one, wishing on the tumbling moonbeams.  
----

So I'm okay, apparently. Well, according to my doctor, that is.

Definitely pregnant, _definitely_ old, but most likely okay.

I watch my children finger-paint at the kitchen table, streaking the ceramic with neon blue. It's been a week since I've taken them out of preschool, and I've regretted it. Every day.

Yes, I love my children more than anything in the world, but I think that they get more unruly each day. Jack does, at least. I'm not sure his medicine is working.

The thing is...there is no _thing_. I've been thinking lately, thinking hard and long. I've come to a startling conclusion, and it scares the living shit out of me.

As much as I've wanted it, I don't think I was made to be a mother.

When I was a little girl, all I wanted for one Christmas was a talking Sally Sue doll, the kind that pissed herself when you fed her the fake milk. As a seven year old, she was the equivalent of a real baby for me, and that was all I wanted.

So Christmas rolled around, and I got Sally Sue. I played with her, wiped up her fake pee, and fed her that damn fake milk until I was sure her little plastic head would explode.

One day, I saw a commercial on TV for a new doll, Happy Hannah. Would you believe that she talked, complete with five different phrases? Somehow, Sally Sue paled in comparison and I threw her under my bed until Hannah came to stay.

This memory has been bothering me lately, and not because I regret wasting the ten dollars my parents spent on Sally Sue (Ross got her). The thing is, I'm getting tired of my children. No, that's not exactly right. Tired from my children is more correct, but still.

I could only handle one doll when I was a little girl. These days, two kids are a stretch for me.

What the hell am I supposed to do in eight months when baby #3 arrives? I can't toss Jack and Erica under my bed.

It's where I keep my messes.

Rustling through my purse, I search for the thing I've been looking for, the thing I've been trying to feel something for. My fingers clutch the small slip of paper and I've got it.

The sonogram.

Keeping my eye on Jack and Erica's messy foray into the art of finger-painting, I stare at the sonogram.

And between the blurry black lines, fuzzy white masses of static, and the general gray in between, it stares back.

"What do you want from me?" I whisper, feeling foolish for talking to my sonogram picture. But I can't do it, I can't bring myself to love the picture of my baby. It's just too hard.

And more than Sally Sue, more than Happy Hannah, more than Erica and Jack, and more than Chandler's reaction to this situation, this scares the living shit out of me.

What kind of coldhearted person doesn't love her baby the second she glimpses the sonogram?

"Erica!" Jack screams at his twin sister, flinging blue paint into her hair.

I snap out of my daze and yell at my children, hating myself in more ways I thought possible.

"Can you two just behave for a minute? Is it really that hard to just get along for once?" I scream at the top of my lungs, running my hands through my dirty hair. I need a shower. I need a hug. I need a drink.

I need a lot of things I can't have.

----

I've abandoned my children downstairs for the telephone. I _told_ you I was a terrible mother.

"I can't do it, Rach. I can't tell him I'm pregnant."

Rachel sighs over the phone. "Monica, I don't know what to tell you. I mean, he'll figure it out soon enough, don't you think? It's not like one day he'll wake up and be like, 'oh, look, I have three kids now!' You know?"

The thing is, I don't. Sure, he'll notice soon enough, but some things are meant to be kept hidden for awhile. This baby is a part of me that I'm not quite ready to share.

"But what if I lose the baby, Rach? I mean, he doesn't have to know then. I don't want to be a burden and--"

"Monica!" She gasps and I can see her face in my head, her mouth is most likely dusting the floor. "You won't lose the baby! And God, if you did, wouldn't you want him there for support?" She shudders. "I mean, imagine going through that alone. You would never be the same."

_And that's that._

I am silent. Completely and utterly silent. A rush of feelings creep up through my abdomen, and I know I'm finally going to break.

"Rach, I feel a wave of morning sickness coming on. I'll call you later." Without even waiting for her to say goodbye, I hang up and sink to the ground.

And without warning, my head begins to spin. All of the sudden, I can taste daisies and my palms can sing the sweetest music. I breathe in shades of light, darker when I'm tired and lighter when I'm wide awake. I feel like I'm dreaming so I breathe in black light, not the kind you use to detect codes, but the simple kind. Just black, and that's how I feel. My stomach heaves up through my throat and my eyes flutter like butterflies. There would have been butterflies. And ants and even wind. But instead there was nothing.

And not any nothing, but the kind of nothing that haunts you on summer days, the kind that creeps up on you when you are least aware. It's a dark nothing that breathes dark light, and when you start to become aware again, your palms sweat the most haunting music.

It's the nothing that was, and then suddenly never could be.

My toes curl and I remember Rachel's words. I remember everything. I remember things no one else remembers because I never told. I told myself I would never tell, but in retrospect, this was a really terrible idea, I can tell.

When I breathe in again (lighter this time), my stomach feels heavy, and I can almost feel the baby. I know she's only a seed. How do I know she's a she? How do I know she will be a she?

How do I know she will be anything?

I'm falling apart, slowly and steadily. It's faster now, this unwinding.

"You won't lose the baby! And God, if you did, wouldn't you want him there for support? I mean, imagine going through that alone. You would never be the same."

Rachel is right. And for once, I'm letting myself feel this.

It hurts like hell.

Downstairs, I hear Chandler walk through the door.

"Hello? Anyone home?"

Jack and Erica rush to him, showering him in hugs and stories of how 'Mommy's been sick all day and hasn't left her room.'

I can hear his footsteps now, but I'm not going to stand up.

I'm a terrible mother, I didn't even fix my children lunch! Even though I know they ate snacks, I could be on Oprah for this. Or Jerry Springer. Or Court TV, I don't know. If I'm lucky, I could be on all three...

"Monica, can you hear me?" He's lifting me onto the bed, shaking me slightly.

I mumble incoherently. I know I can talk perfectly fine, but somehow I don't want to. I don't need to, it's just that simple.

"Mon, what's wrong?"

You don't need to know, I'm going insane, but you don't need to know why. One of us has to function. And it's usually me, but I just don't think I can right now.

"Jesus, Mon, say something now or I'm calling 911!"

Oh, shit. Then the neighbors will wonder what's wrong. "I'm fine," I look him in the eyes. "I've just had a hard...day."

His mouth falls open. "I thought you died on me, Mon. It didn't look like you heard a word I was saying...What the hell happened?"

Hug me. Just hold me for a minute. Not any longer, just give me 60 seconds. I suppose I gave him a pretty big scare, but still. Is it all about him? I know I'm being selfish, but he doesn't know why. So that makes me look even worse. But if I told him why, he'd be even worse. So I say nothing about it.

"I think...I think I had a nervous breakdown." I shake my head against the pillow, feeling tears roll down my cheeks. "And now I'm crying, great."

He brushes them away with his fingertips. "Mon, what's going on?" His voice is soft and sad, and I know I'll only make it sadder if I tell him. So I lie.

"Nothing."

_A lie._

"That's a lie."

_He caught me._

"No, really, I'm fine."

_A lie again._

"Then why are you still crying?"

_He's letting up._

"I don't know."

_Another lie._

Lifting me by my arms, Chandler pulls me into him. I sigh and let myself fall, again and again, into his shoulders, melting into his skin. I soak his shirt with my tears. This one will need to be dry cleaned, for sure.

Before it gets too messy, before we get too messy, I pull away.

"Feel better?"

"Yes."

_I lie._

"Are you sure, Monica?" His blue eyes pierce mine, and he knows everything is not fine.

"Yes."

_Liar, liar!_

"But Chandler, listen, give me your shirt."

"What?" He pulls away from me, taken aback.

"It needs to be dry cleaned. I messed it up." Like everything else I've _fucked_ up lately...

He closes his eyes and shakes his head once more. "Wait...what?"

"Just let me go to the dry cleaner's. I think a drive might be good for me right now. Between the kids and everything, I think I just might need a moment of peace." I stand up, unbuttoning his shirt. At any other time, this might be sexy, but now it's just an act of my sheer insanity.

"Okay," he looks unsure. "Just drive safely, okay?"

I bound down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I need to go. I'm going to explode. "Yeah. Sure." I snatch the keys from the table, almost knocking the still-not-cleaned-up finger paints from their perch.

"Mommy, where are you going?" Erica asks me, concerned. She knows I'm not fine.

"Oh, just running some errands, sweetie!" I smile and pat her on the head, tears running down my cheeks. I can't control it anymore. I don't know if it's the result of hormones or craziness, but whatever it is has taken over.

"When will you be back, Mon?" Chandler kisses me goodbye at the door.

"Soon."

_Lies, lies, lies._

As I shut the door behind me, I hear Erica's voice ring out. "Daddy, is Mommy okay?"

I laugh, finding the entire situation tragically comical.

"Yes," he promises. "Mommy's fine."

Dear Lord, Chandler. I shake my head in dismay, because that one's the biggest lie of them all.

----

_Happy New Year! Thank you for reading! If I haven't been too much of a jerk by abandoning this fic, leave me a review. lol. I'll try and update ASAP. For real this time. :)_

_Mel_


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